


Let's Go Practice Medicine

by Furzeflower



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Tenth Class (Team Fortress 2), i'm very new to this whole things so Blease bear with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furzeflower/pseuds/Furzeflower
Summary: We have come with a job opportunity…...have incriminating evidence…...otherwise, it will be released to the authorities…...please arrive as soon as possible.Though very little of the words seemed to make sense to you, the gist of it certainly did. You were being blackmailed.---You've been blackmailed into coming to the mysterious town of Teufort, Arizona. Things seem to be going well when a mysterious affliction befalls it's inhabitants - coincidentally, your new coworkers.





	1. Holy Shit, There's Nine of Them

The Arizona landscape was bleak and foreboding, with plateaus and cacti the only thing visible for what looked like miles. The view sped by quickly, the car eating up the space on the poorly maintained road ahead. The woman in the driver’s seat - who had introduced herself as Ms. Pauling - had her view fixed squarely ahead, and seemed to pay your presence no mind. Her gaze would occasionally flicker down to a large beat-up notepad, as if mentally reminding herself of a task. Her hands would fly for the pen behind her ear every once in a while to write something down on the ink-stained paper.

You returned to your window watching, just quick enough to notice a change in landscape. The endless red dust that seemed to permeate everything now had a few small rickety buildings on top. A large metal statue passed by on the left, surrounded by trash and filth. A few misspelled shop signs and a building proclaiming to be the ‘town halle’ were all that this place had to offer. You looked over at Ms. Pauling for guidance - surely this wasn’t where the job opportunity they had specified was?

“Ma’am?” You paused, waiting for her acknowledgement. When none came, you continued. “Where are we?” She flashed you a terse smile, eyes never leaving the road.

“Teufort, Arizona. But not the part where you’ll be working.” That sentence in itself was a relief. You passed through the town without incident, and soon pulled up to a poorly cut set of fake cactus and bushes. Behind it was a canvas backdrop of the desert that looked like it would sooner fall over than fool anyone. Ms. Pauling drove up to it, and the ‘disguise’ folded away as you two approached. She pulled into a garage and turned the key, killing the engine. The car looked so old and decrepit that you weren’t convinced it would start again.

Nevertheless, you slipped out into the desert heat and grabbed your bag from the backseat. The majority of your belongings had been left at home, as you were instructed to only bring clothes for off-hours. Work clothes would be provided. Of course, you didn’t know what _kind_ of work clothes would be awaiting you, as you knew precious little about the job. Or anything, really. The position had been given to you under odd circumstances.

-

You had come home to find a mysteriously marked letter - no return address, or sender’s address. Just your name.

You opened it once you had walked inside, curiosity running high. You began to read. Within moments, you were crying. The letter had shook in your unsteady hands, tears that blurred your vision making it hard to read. You mouthed the words softly to yourself and read over them twice, too shocked to comprehend what they meant.

_We have come with a job opportunity…_

_...have incriminating evidence…_

_...otherwise, it will be released to the authorities…_

_...please arrive as soon as possible._

Though very little of the words seemed to make sense to you, the gist of it certainly did. You were being blackmailed. The attached pictures of your mother running with a bag of groceries made sure of it. You knew exactly when this had happened - the incident had kept the three of you fed for weeks.

You risked a glance over to the living room couch where your mother slept, chest heaving with every breath. You couldn’t do this to her. And yet, you had to. If these got released, both you and your baby brother, sleeping soundly upstairs, would be taken away from her. They would do an investigation, your mother would have to go to court, your brother would be left in the foster system, you’d be on your own, you’d lose the apartment, you’d lose everything, you’d -

Deep breath. In. Out. Your mother wasn’t a criminal, and neither were you. You risked a glance back down to the letter. This might very well be the answer to your prayers - it said that money would be delivered to your family every month in the form of a discreet paycheck.

Fuck it. They needed this money. Plus, it’d be one less mouth to feed. You went to look for something to write your goodbye on - the letter requested your presence at the give address no later than six that night.

-

Your wandering mind was brought back by Ms. Pauling’s call for your attention. Head snapping back up, you noticed her holding a door open for you. This was the place, you supposed. Still slightly embarrassed, you followed her into the building, bag slung haphazardly over your left shoulder. The room you walked into was empty, but laughter and the clanging of dishes could be heard from the next room over. It sounded loud, lively, and most of all - _homely_. A loud _slam!_ startled you both, accompanied by uproarious laughter from the source. Your guide smiled over her shoulder at you, eyes betraying her tiredness and stress levels. You almost felt pity for the woman. Regardless, she walked into the room with her head held high - so you followed with your shoulders squared and chin up.

What you saw surprised you. It was the buildings kitchen and dining room, that much was apparent - but it was the nine men sitting at the table that caused your shock. At your entrance, the majority of them looked up at you quizzically, the laughter and noise coming to a cacophonous halt. One, who looked like the youngest of the lot, smiled unnaturally wide. He had gangly arms and mussed brown hair, as well as white wrappings around his hands. His clothes were causal in nature, and his ambiance that of a friend.

“Ms. Pauling!” He called, waving her over. “Come join us for dinner? I got a bucket of chicken in the fridge!” He spoke with an accent that was distinctly Bostonian, all soft r’s and elongated o’s. At this sentence, another man snorted with what seemed like laughter. He was dressed in a crisply pressed pinstripe suit, complete with black gloves and red ski mask. You looked around the room, noticing the copious amounts of the color. Everything seemed to be - from the red creme walls to the fire engine red refrigerator, noting that nothing escaped the garish hue. Even the damn mugs the men drank from had the word RED on it.

“No, Scout, I haven’t time for dinner, you know that.” The young man, presumably Scout, let his head sag in defeat. “I have, however, brought you your newest mercenary.” At this, all nine of their gazes turned to you. You smiled politely, still unsure of what the hell you were doing here. Ms. Pauling turned and handed you a very thick manilla folder, chock-full of papers. “Orientation.” She explained, expression apologetic. She handed a similar folder - albeit much slimmer - to one of the men at the table. He had dark curly tousled hair that framed his face in messy locks, accenting his glasses and sharp jawline. Piercing blue eyes seemed disinterested in whatever he had been handed. He wore a white collared shirt, red tie, and brown vest. There was a smattering of a red substance you prayed wasn’t blood across his cheek. He looked up at your guide and nodded.

“Please don’t attack her with questions until she’s read the packet, you know the drill.” Ms. Pauling explained, fixing a piercing glare in Scout’s direction. “The BLU team will be receiving a similar mercenary this evening.” She checked her watch and cursed. “Team, this is the Recruit. You will call her as such until she receives a fitting class.” Recruit? Huh? Oh, right, no names. That was one of the few things they _actually_ explained to you about this job. No names.

Ms. Pauling continued. “Recruit, this is your new team.” She smiled at you, gesturing to the men around the table. “Scout,” The man with the dogtags who spoke first. “Spy,” The man with the suit. “Heavy,” He raised an arm as a hello, just narrowly avoiding hitting his teammate in the head. He was huge, and his face was set in intimidation. “Sniper,” The man in question gave a two-fingered salute, though his expression was unreadable behind his sunglasses. Who wears sunglasses inside? This dude, apparently. “Demoman,” This one gave you a wink - or at least, what you assumed to be a wink. He had an eyepatch and a bottle in his hand. He took a swig of its contents as Ms. Pauling continued. “Pyro,” This one was curious - they wore a fire-retardant suit and gas mask, and waved at you. You waved back. “Soldier,” The man in question wore a helmet low on his brow, obscuring his eyes. He was the only one in uniform - everyone else wore casual clothes. He had two patches on his arms, both displaying a rocket in red and yellow embroidery, though none of the others had this. He had two grenades strapped to his chest, making him seem more intimidating than he should have been. “Engineer,” He smiled at you, and had goggles resting on top of his head. His right hand was covered with a yellow construction glove, which struck you as curious. You filed it away in the back of your mind. “And Medic.” Ms. Pauling finished with the man who she had handed the other folder to. He did not smile at you, only nodded his head in your direction. You shivered. If the blood on his face was any indication, this was not a man you wanted to cross.

Ms. Pauling turned to you, smiling. “That folder will explain everything. I trust one of you can show her to her room?” She eyed the table. Scout threw his hands in exasperation, muttering the word “Fine!” under his breath. The woman in front of you nodded. “Good. Take care of yourself, Recruit.” She gave you one last shoulder squeeze before slipping out of the room, leaving you at the mercy of your new co-workers.


	2. You call this a room?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to get settled in, you suppose.

The tension in the air was almost palpable. You had nine pairs of eyes trained on your form, each with unreadable expressions. Perhaps they hadn’t known you were coming? Or maybe they hadn’t wanted a new addition after all. You pondered the question, trying to meet everyone’s gaze at once.

Luckily for you, the distant noise of a door closing (probably Ms. Pauling, leaving) seemed to jumpstart Scout into action. He leapt up, the motion jingling the silver dogtags hanging around his neck. He slipped around his chair and sauntered up to you, a welcoming grin on his face.  

“Hey, nice to meet’cha! Sorry about the rough start, we wasn’t sure if you were coming today or tomorrow, and -” He was cut off by Engineer’s gloved hand on his shoulder. He stood behind Scout, goggles reflecting ceiling fan’s the light about the room.

"Don’t scare the poor thing, Scout. She’s just got here.” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t mind him.” He looked at Scout directly, gaze hard. You couldn’t help but notice that the other seven mercenaries seated at the table had all but forgotten your presence, electing to ignore the scene happening around them.

“Scout,” Engineer continued. “How about you show her around, like you told Ms. Pauling you would?” Scout’s face contorted into a scowl, and he glared down at the Engineer.  

“C’mon.” Scout waved you forwards, having already slipped out of his friend’s grasp. He walked out of the kitchen, not looking back to see if you would follow. Painfully aware of Engineer’s eyes on your back as you meekly followed your guide down the hall.  

- 

Scout’s idea of a ‘tour’ was nothing like what you’d imagined. Though the base’s layout seemed simple enough -  first floor was common areas, medbay, and storage, while second floor was individual rooms - it was the way that he went about showing you it that made it so convoluted. He showed you rooms in order of his most to least favorite, making the tour zig-zag through the base in an impossible to trace route. You felt dizzy by the end. He haphazardly showed you the training and weapons rooms (you briefly wondered if you should ask why you had need for either of those areas, but felt it was better left unsaid), the living and dining rooms, and alluded to the existence of a library somewhere on the premises. Naturally, he had never stepped inside. Typical.  

The first-floor tour ended with the medbay, a set of foreboding metal doors marked with twin grated windows. A quick glance through them revealed what looked like the set of a horror movie - a metal table crowded with terrifying tools of all sizes. White doves roosted in the room’s various corners, and the area had an overall aura of fear. It looked like the set of a low-budget horror movie. You shivered, an action which did not go unnoticed by your guide. 

“Yeah, I can’t blame you. The doc is…” He averted his eyes from the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “An interesting man. Gives me the creeps, to say the least.” Well _that_ was concerning. Scout had worked with him for a year and was still scared of him? You recalled the piercing blue eyes the man in question possessed, and decided to stay wary, at least for the time being.

Scout jerked his head in the direction of the stairs, much to your relief. Perhaps the second floor would keep your mind from wandering to this part of the first.

“C’mon,” he said. “Lemme show you your room.”

-

Presently, you were seated on the edge of bed, manilla folder spread out around you on the distastefully colored red sheets. Scout had taken you upstairs and waved you in the direction of the room. He left immediately after, mumbling something about letting you get settled. You didn’t mind his sudden departure. The room was modest and cozy, boasting only a bed, armoire, and writing desk. The armoire had been full of outfits for battle - though how they got your measurements, you had no idea. After reading through the folder, you decided you didn’t want to know.

 Though the folder had explained much, it had left you with more questions than answers. Your first question was “Why?”. Why in the hell were a bunch of essentially unkillable beings fighting each other over a plot of worthless land? The power of a grudge, you supposed. A long one.

 The first packet you picked up had explained a little bit about this place’s history - the bastards who made you fight, namely. Your patron was named Redmond, apparently. Explained the theme, at least.

 The next packet had been slightly more cryptic and certainly less straight-forward. Your job description would be to fight on specified days over said land. The strange “no name” policy made much more sense to you now - easier to identify people in the field. Less confusing, too, you imagined.

 But that brought forth the question - Why were you called recruit? The other nine had clear, defined roles, so why didn’t you? Luckily, the next packet had answered that rather neatly for you.

 You were an experimental class. You, with the guidance of the other nine mercenaries, would be let onto the battlefield with whatever weapons or items you so pleased - with some restraint, of course. Your blue-aligned double would be given the same freedom. From there, you would be named as was deemed fit, but “Recruit” was to be used until then.

 Your head swam with information, finally understanding the measures of security used before now. You understood why your dresser was full of bright red clothing for battle, why they needed a training room or weapons room. You understood why they blackmailed your family instead of hiring you like a normal person - this was illegal, there was no fucking way this wasn’t highly illegal. The room spun around you, pink, red, and creme hues blurring through teary vision. Your heart raced, breath quickened. You thought of your family - it’s been what, two days since you left? Your mother has definitely read the note you haphazardly scrawled across the back of a receipt, left taped to the back of the front door.

 You grabbed your head and clutched it tight to your thighs and stomach, curling in on yourself, trying to block out the world. She was probably heartbroken. Why the hell did you do this, anyways? The pictures floated into your thoughts - of course, it hadn’t been just groceries. Your mother had also slipped several valuables into the bag, and promptly sold them off. The valuables weren’t either of yours, of course. They were stolen. Your head pounded. When did the first check go home? They’d need it soon, right? You know when you left there’s only been a bag of shredded cheese, a package of chicken and some jam left, but with you out of the house it would last them longer, with you gone they could -

 You stopped yourself. Deep breath. In. Out. You opened your eyes, which had been clenched shut, and wiped away the tears accumulating in their corners. In, and out. You uncurled your fists and lifted up your head. Legs stretching out over the edge of the bed, you grabbed the paper you had long discarded. You held it tight in shaking hands, scouring it’s text for an answer. Two weeks. They could make it two weeks, until the first paycheck came. In, and out. You continued to focus on your  breathing, steadying it until it was stable once more. In, and out.

 You steeled yourself. One more packet was still tucked in the folder, and you needed to read it. Your clammy fingers reached for it, still shaking from the after effects of the anxiety attack. As you skimmed through it with surprising ease, one snippet stood out to you, stopping you dead in your tracks. Your breath hitched slightly.

  _“...as part of the functions of respawn and the medigun’s usage, you will need to be calibrated into the system via an appointment with the team’s resident doctor, Medic…”_

 Well. Fuck.

 You’d have to see the terrifying Medic up close and personal by the end of the night if this packet was to be believed - the similar folder he had been handed made sense. He’d need paperwork for such a procedure, right? Though you doubted he would be the type of doctor to bother with such a thing, the hope that it might be made it seem better. Seem more safe and legal, at least. Maybe.

You took another deep breath, dispelling the last of your jitters. According to this, he would be expecting you after dinner; Nine O'Clock, sharp. It was 8:43 now - best get going. You readied yourself, holding your head up high and shoulders wide. It was time to meet the Medic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hls;ja hi guys!!!!!! okay, one quick question: how is the '-' thing working out? Is it too weird or jarring for skips? I think it's better than just slapping a good old fashioned 'timeskip!' in there, but idk

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!! This is my first big fic, ever. I have it mostly storyboarded, so here's to hoping I can stick with it. For anyone wondering, she will get a proper name and class, but I thought it would be neat to have her discover it while working at the base! I'm planning this roughly in 1969, one year after the mercs were hired, so no one really is going to be too terribly averse to a new merc. <3


End file.
